Curiosity
by Fogs of Gray
Summary: It settled in your thoughts. Truly, you never forgot, but you never quite remembered.


Hey hey hey! I made it back after far too long. And I have a Caster Chronicle ficlet. Not really a long story, nor a comprehensive tale. It's in second person...kind of. Reader POV sort of stuff. You'll have to forgive me, as I'm rusty after lack of use. This might be off-kilter, but who _**hasn't **_wanted to meet Mister Ravenwood at some point or another? So, I went for a younger Macon.

On a separate note, this is my 20th. Exciting stuff, right here.

And I might be making a sequel of this. More chapters? Only by popular demand.

Disclaimer: Not my characters.

Spoilers: Erm...Beautiful Creatures.

* * *

There's a house here, in Gatlin County. A dark place, certainly. It claws at your soul every time you pass. A beautiful house, nonetheless. With its sprawling grounds and drifting trees, it is brilliant, far more than anything you'll find in the county. Maybe the state, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. With the darkened windows and cracked glass, it isn't more than a passing interest. Something you pass by on a Sunday morning on your way out of town. You don't think about it, truly. It's a wisp of interest, a ghost of a semblance of curiosity. In another moment, you're caught by how the gas pedal sticks in your handed down car. It's gone, but not really. You see, you never forget…not really. You just don't remember precisely why you were there at that moment, why it caught your interest.

Oh, but what must be down there, with its shaded grass and veiled rumors. Cannibals, some say. Incest, some whisper. But that can't be right. And it can't be wrong. It's one of _those_ places that question your foundations and make your bones quiver. With what, one can't distinguish. Fear, possibly. It's not near paralyzing enough. Curiosity, almost. It's not quite as entrancing as that. However, if one had the insight to think about it, they would find it was sadness on those gates. A despair, quiet and muted, that plunged the house into their mind. Something so entirely _wrong, _that it sings in your mind, if only for a moment.

Not that anyone knows anything, really. You hear the rumors. The gossip. _I hear he murders children! _With a hearse, you scoff. Even a criminal isn't that stupid, to be so indiscrete. _I hear they're a…thing. _You've heard of worse stories lurking in this town's aristocracy. We paint a façade here in Gatlin. A very nice mask. Maybe for some reason you'll have the heart to deduce later. We're cowardly, and harsh. We see only what we want to. When we see nothing of the house that haunts our town, we draw conclusions.

The house, no matter how disturbing, isn't the heart of our problem. Even with its desperate way of disarming the public, we enjoy it. What irritates the majority of us isn't the house, but the man that calls it home. Some say he's some royalty. Some that he's a wealthy businessman. Either way, you know, as everyone does, he's old money. Nothing quite wrong there. It's a beautiful thing, to keep wealth in such a way, when so much is wasted. No, that's a proper thing.

Maybe it's that no one has seen him. The children assume he's somewhat of a bumbling idiot, but with a house like that…well, he has some danger to him that isn't as trivial as stupidity. And with fortitude like theirs, the family has to be some sort of beautiful. Some sort of different. Not the simple striking of Gatlin. Maybe dashing, with dark eyes like the shadows of his namesake and hair struck silver. He could be that sort of handsome. That sort of properly timeless.

Sometimes, when you allow yourself to have flights of fancy, you swear you can see him there, tall and dark. Lonely. He has to be lonely, in that house of his, with only himself. Maybe he travels the world. That would occupy time. But no one sees him leave his house, so that can't be right. Again, there's the pull in your chest. Not quite wrong.

Something worth protecting, you conclude. It has to be some daring secret. Not the sweaty gossip the ladies like to buy into…but a weeping travesty. A lost love. Something of a Gatsby without the parties. Where some see that wrong, you see reason. He's given up. No one will find him there. And he's not trying to attract anyone. The recluse doesn't bait company, no more than he flourishes the town.

That brings up another question, one that makes your breaths stop falsely. Why Gatlin? Why this small town? To wallow, perhaps. But Mister Ravenwood wouldn't do that. At least…you don't think he would. He comes off as a dark attraction, prone to moodiness, not depression. Maybe to reconcile with family memories, but- oh! -you remember the stories you've heard about his father. Somehow they seemed more real than the newly slung speculation. They pandered at your heart and never really left, no more than the visage of the manor. They sit there on the back burner, a decisively alarming err itching your head.

Dark, indeed. Maybe that's what has you here, sitting cross-legged on the hood of your handed down pick-up. The gates are less intricate than you expected, although vines seemed to have claimed the majority of it as home. What is left is rusted, not nearly the gleaming barrier you anticipated. It isn't the warmest of nights; hasn't been above seventy for the last week, but the crawling plants don't seem to mind anymore than you do.

Besides, you're armed with mace and proper clothing. Mace, in the odd situation that someone took the opportunity to turn left instead of right and follow you. Mister Ravenwood didn't worry you as much. There _was_ an ancient gate barring you from trespassing, and him from you, if the circumstance came. And mace worked universally, the last time you checked. His status as a murderer, or an inbred, or whatever he was didn't change his anatomy.

Now, though, you have to wonder if it's something more than a title. With the stars illuminating through the trees, and the moon not quite full, it seems surreal. Almost- but no. That doesn't exist. And if it did, it wouldn't be here of all places. You allow your eyes to close. Maybe this was just a misguided way of wasting time. Childish. You blow out a breath and tilt your head back, as though the filtered moonlight would offer some sort of revelation.

Instead, there's a swipe of Spanish moss against cloth. Your eyes focus remarkably, and you barely have time to catch the silhouette that darts across the limited view the gate provides. The pieces click together too slowly to be of any use. The name slips from your lips anyway, breathless and entirely too intimate. "Ravenwood." This startles you from your stupor and you call again, your voice still quivering. He doesn't stop his trek. "Mister Ravenwood!" You hop down from the hood, and the resulting crack causes a hiss. You grip the metal in an odd attempt to keep yourself standing. It's rough against your palms, cool and collected.

When your eyes sweep over the expanse again, they fall on Mister Ravenwood standing only about twenty feet from your position. He's still, this time, his shoulders tense. You were right, it seems. Tall, pale, well dressed. "Please," you utter.

His shoulders stint less, and with a quick turn, and an entirely too fast gait, he's in font of you. Four feet. Better. From this distance you can see almost everything about him, how wrong everyone was in their assumptions. He looks tired, you note, a bone deep weariness that contrasts with his youthful form. He greets you with a chilling stare. "Why are you here?" His voice is a slow drawl, enunciated in a way that makes your education look folly.

"I'm not trespassing, sir." The title falls from your lips clumsily, and he smiles quietly.

"I never assumed you were. That is public domain." His brow furrows slightly. "There is still a question left unanswered."

"I want answers." For a second, he looks ready to turn and disappear. Instead, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Everyone does. Now, it is a Friday night. Surely you have something better to do. Something involving…whatever you do with other people."

"Why can't that be you?" His impossible eyes narrow slightly.

"People your own age. Honestly-" He stops abruptly, taking in your stance. "Are you injured?" The question drops out of the act, sincerely concerned, and still distant.

It takes you a moment to notice the reference to your foot, held about half a foot above the ground in an attempt to alleviate pressure. "N-no." You shake your head easily. "A bit uncoordinated," you supply. He sighs, barely a breath. Your hands tighten on the bars.

Suddenly, he's close enough to touch. You inhale sharply. Blood oranges and jasmine. His lips pull into a small frown. "There are things you will never have the burden to understand. However, I'm in a charitable mood. I won't kill you."

"Not tonight," you murmur.

"Not tonight," he echoes. "I'll advise you to stay away. Life isn't often kind to those with hazardous dispositions." His dark eyes flicker above your shoulder, into the trees, as if something caught his attention. Uncontrollably, you turn around in an attempt to see it, as well. Nothing. You turn again quickly, and find him gone. Your foot hits the ground.

You drive home slowly, even as there's not a person on the road. Your thoughts aren't clear, and that gas pedal of yours is sticking. It's almost uncanny how easily you fall back into your mindset. There are masks Gatlin forces. Until now, you've speculated they should be torn from people to reveal truth. Now, though, you must admit…that maybe they are there solely for safety.

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Have a nice day, readers.


End file.
